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Ballads of a Bohemian

<h2> IV </h2> My Garret, Montparnasse, April. Hurrah! As I opened my eyes this morning to a hard, unfeeling world, little did I think what a surprise awaited me. A big blue envelope had been pushed under my door. Another rejection, I thought, and I took it up distastefully. The next moment I was staring at my first cheque. It was an express order for two hundred francs, in payment of a bit of verse.. . . So to-day I will celebrate. I will lunch at the D'Harcourt, I will dine on the Grand Boulevard, I will go to the theater. Well, here's the thing that has turned the tide for me. It is somewhat in the vein of "Sourdough" Service, the Yukon bard. I don't think much of his stuff, but they say he makes heaps of money. I can well believe it, for he drives a Hispano-Suiza in the Bois every afternoon. The other night he was with a crowd at the Dome Cafe, a chubby chap who sits in a corner and seldom speaks. I was disappointed. I thought he was a big, hairy man who swore like a trooper and mixed brandy with his beer. He only drank Vichy, poor fellow! <h2> Lucille </h2> Of course you've heard of the Nancy Lee, and how she sailed away On her famous quest of the Arctic flea, to the wilds of Hudson's Bay? For it was a foreign Prince's whim to collect this tiny cuss, And a golden quid was no more to him than a copper to coves like us. So we sailed away and our hearts were gay as we gazed on the gorgeous scene; And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea of the wolf and the wolverine; Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite of the ermine rat we slew, And the great musk ox, and the silver fox, and the moose and the caribou. And we laughed with zest as the insect pest of the marmot crowned our zeal, And the wary mink and the wily "link", and the walrus and the seal. And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow we danced a rigadoon, Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare, by the light of the silver moon. But the time was nigh to homeward hie, when, imagine our despair! For the best of the lot we hadn't got—the flea of the polar bear. Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong, as the Skipper he says to me: "I wants you to linger 'ere, my lad, by the shores of the Hartic Sea; I wants you to 'unt the polar bear the perishin' winter through, And if flea ye find of its breed and kind, there's a 'undred quid for you." But I shook my head: "No, Cap," I said; "it's yourself I'd like to please, But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that if ye went on yer bended knees." Then the Captain spat in the seething brine, and he says: "Good luck to you, If it can't be did for a 'undred quid, supposin' we call it two?" So that was why they said good-by, and they sailed and left me there— Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone to hunt for the polar bear. Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe, till I thought they would never end; And I used to sit when the fire was lit, with my pipe for my only friend. And I tried to sing some rollicky thing, but my song broke off in a prayer, And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam; I'd dream of a polar bear; I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear that blotted the stars on high, With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws, and the flames of hell in his eye. And I'd trap around on the frozen ground, as a proper hunter ought, And beasts I'd find of every kind, but never the one I sought. Never a track in the white ice-pack that humped and heaved and flawed, Till I came to think: "Why, strike me pink! if the creature ain't a fraud." And then one night in the waning light, as I hurried home to sup, I hears a roar by the cabin door, and a great white hulk heaves up. So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed; dead, dead as a stone fell he, And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear—Gosh ding me!—a tiny flea. At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast, and I gazed on it with pride; And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin, and I shut it safe inside; With a lid of glass for the light to pass, and space to leap and play; Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive, as I watched it night and day. And I used to sit and sing to it, and I shielded it from harm, And many a hearty feed it had on the heft of my hairy arm. For you'll never know in that land of snow how lonesome a man can feel; So I made a fuss of the little cuss, and I christened it "Lucille". But the longest winter has its end, and the ice went out to sea, And I saw one day a ship in the bay, and there was the Nancy Lee. So a boat was lowered and I went aboard, and they opened wide their eyes— Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear, and they saw my precious prize. And then it was all like a giddy dream; but to cut my story short, We sailed away on the fifth of May to the foreign Prince's court; To a palmy land and a palace grand, and the little Prince was there, And a fat Princess in a satin dress with a crown of gold on her hair. And they showed me into a shiny room, just him and her and me, And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like, and he calls for drinks for three. And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin, and I makes my modest spiel, And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid, and out there popped Lucille. Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that, and the Princess she was too; And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth as she often used to do. And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold, and he put it in my hand; And he says: "It was worth all that, I'm told, to stay in that nasty land." And then he turned with a sudden cry, and he clutched at his royal beard; And the Princess screamed, and well she might—for Lucille had disappeared. "She must be here," said his Noble Nibbs, so we hunted all around; Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace of the little beast we found. So I shook my head, and I glumly said: "Gol darn the saucy cuss! It's mighty queer, but she isn't here; so . . . she must be on one of us. You'll pardon me if I make so free, but—there's just one thing to do: If you'll kindly go for a half a mo' I'll search me garments through." Then all alone on the shiny throne I stripped from head to heel; In vain, in vain; it was very plain that I hadn't got Lucille. So I garbed again, and I told the Prince, and he scratched his august head; "I suppose if she hasn't selected you, it must be me," he said. So he retired; but he soon came back, and his features showed distress: "Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me." . . . Then we looked at the Princess. So she retired; and we heard a scream, and she opened wide the door; And her fingers twain were pinched to pain, but a radiant smile she wore: "It's here," she cries, "our precious prize. Oh, I found it right away. . . ." Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay. I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel . . . What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but . . . it wasn't my Lucille. After all, I did not celebrate. I sat on the terrace of the Cafe Napolitain on the Grand Boulevard, half hypnotized by the passing crowd. And as I sat I fell into conversation with a god-like stranger who sipped some golden ambrosia. He told me he was an actor and introduced me to his beverage, which he called a "Suze-Anni". He soon left me, but the effect of the golden liquid remained, and there came over me a desire to write. C'�tait plus fort que moi. So instead of going to the Folies Berg�re I spent all evening in the Omnium Bar near the Bourse, and wrote the following: <h2> On the Boulevard </h2> Oh, it's pleasant sitting here, Seeing all the people pass; You beside your bock of beer, I behind my demi-tasse. Chatting of no matter what. You the Mummer, I the Bard; Oh, it's jolly, is it not?— Sitting on the Boulevard. More amusing than a book, If a chap has eyes to see; For, no matter where I look, Stories, stories jump at me. Moving tales my pen might write; Poems plain on every face; Monologues you could recite With inimitable grace. (Ah! Imagination's power) See yon demi-mondaine there, Idly toying with a flower, Smiling with a pensive air . . . Well, her smile is but a mask, For I saw within her muff Such a wicked little flask: Vitriol—ugh! the beastly stuff. Now look back beside the bar. See yon curled and scented beau, Puffing at a fine cigar— Sale esp�ce de maquereau. Well (of course, it's all surmise), It's for him she holds her place; When he passes she will rise, Dash the vitriol in his face. Quick they'll carry him away, Pack him in a Red Cross car; Her they'll hurry, so they say, To the cells of St. Lazare. What will happen then, you ask? What will all the sequel be? Ah! Imagination's task Isn't easy . . . let me see . . . She will go to jail, no doubt, For a year, or maybe two; Then as soon as she gets out Start her bawdy life anew. He will lie within a ward, Harmless as a man can be, With his face grotesquely scarred, And his eyes that cannot see. Then amid the city's din He will stand against a wall, With around his neck a tin Into which the pennies fall. She will pass (I see it plain, Like a cinematograph), She will halt and turn again, Look and look, and maybe laugh. Well, I'm not so sure of that— Whether she will laugh or cry. He will hold a battered hat To the lady passing by. He will smile a cringing smile, And into his grimy hold, With a laugh (or sob) the while, She will drop a piece of gold. "Bless you, lady," he will say, And get grandly drunk that night. She will come and come each day, Fascinated by the sight. Then somehow he'll get to know (Maybe by some kindly friend) Who she is, and so . . . and so Bring my story to an end. How his heart will burst with hate! He will curse and he will cry. He will wait and wait and wait, Till again she passes by. Then like tiger from its lair He will leap from out his place, Down her, clutch her by the hair, Smear the vitriol on her face. (Ah! Imagination rare) See . . . he takes his hat to go; Now he's level with her chair; Now she rises up to throw. . . . God! and she has done it too . . . Oh, those screams; those hideous screams! I imagined and . . . it's true: How his face will haunt my dreams! What a sight! It makes me sick. Seems I am to blame somehow. Garcon, fetch a brandy quick . . . There! I'm feeling better now. Let's collaborate, we two, You the Mummer, I the Bard; Oh, what ripping stuff we'll do, Sitting on the Boulevard! It is strange how one works easily at times. I wrote this so quickly that I might almost say I had reached the end before I had come to the beginning. In such a mood I wonder why everybody does not write poetry. Get a Roget's Thesaurus, a rhyming dictionary: sit before your typewriter with a strong glass of coffee at your elbow, and just click the stuff off. <h2> Facility </h2> So easy 'tis to make a rhyme, That did the world but know it, Your coachman might Parnassus climb, Your butler be a poet. Then, oh, how charming it would be If, when in haste hysteric You called the page, you learned that he Was grappling with a lyric. Or else what rapture it would yield, When cook sent up the salad, To find within its depths concealed A touching little ballad. Or if for tea and toast you yearned, What joy to find upon it The chambermaid had coyly laid A palpitating sonnet. Your baker could the fashion set; Your butcher might respond well; With every tart a triolet, With every chop a rondel. Your tailor's bill . . . well, I'll be blowed! Dear chap! I never knowed him . . . He's gone and written me an ode, Instead of what I owed him. So easy 'tis to rhyme . . . yet stay! Oh, terrible misgiving! Please do not give the game away . . . I've got to make my living. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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